Respite
by shadeshark
Summary: There's nothing like a visit to your friends after a rough day. Leon is feeling down and hangs out with some friends. Absolutely no slash or het occurs. Pure gen, pure fluff, rating only for mentioned violence.


His sock's torn and half-stuck down the side of his shoe; his hair's matted down with icy autumn rainwater. That's enough on its own to make his teeth lock together, but add the bruises and stiffness of a morning's scuffle and a long cold ride on a helicopter and he wants nothing more than orange juice and a chance to let the world go black for a few hours. He's tired past wanting to sleep, but maybe if he curled up under an electric blanket. . .

Which is why he scowls and bangs the side of his fist on the doorframe when he reaches his apartment and realizes he left the key in his duffel bag: the one that was confiscated after he bashed the terrorist's head in with it. The key ring he felt in his pocket when he was asked if he needed anything from it? That was for his lockers on the base and at work. Damn. He nods to a neighbor who pokes her head out and scowls, apologizes as he backs away from her disgruntled, curlered, bewakened wrath.

His jacket's soaked through, he broke his cell phone on the second swing of the bag, and he's got nowhere to go, really. Not unless he cares to go sit outside the office drying his hair on paper towels from the restroom until the security guy gets back from his check. He lets his shoulders slump as he thinks, then starts for the office building.

Wait.

The taxi drops him off outside a house in perfect condition: the gutters look like they'd come from a magazine, the trees are planted in measured order, the stepping stones of the path are smooth. Chris apologizes for his absences with actions, and his actions tend to be to put the house in order. He must have dropped by pretty recently, considering the way the leaves are dyeing old-blood stains on the roofs of the other houses, but the gutters ahead are still white like the teeth in a magazine ad.

. . . he realizes he must be more tired than he thought.

He can hear the television as he comes up to the door. He knocks, twice, and a woman's voice calls something indiscernable. It's Jill that opens the door, her brown hair ruffled and wearing, for some reason, a heavy winter coat and bare feet. Leon's gaze automatically tracks down the clean line of her legs as she makes a surprised sound and opens the door. She doesn't take off the coat until Claire's in the hallway with a squeal of glee, reaching her arms out to hug him and stopping as she takes in how bedraggled he really is. They're both dressed for bed, and he's glad he got in when he did.

"Is this blood?" Jill's wearing a. . . what's the word for a short nightie, in some sort of color that reminds him of ripe peaches only shimmery instead of fuzzy, and she's reaching up to the side of his head with concern.

"Stay right there," Claire says, holding a hand up authoritatively as she backs away, "I'm getting some of Chris' things." She vanishes up the stairs in a flourish of loose pink pajama legs, and Jill is left to take his jacket and fetch paper towels and fuss over him, a set to her lips like she's going to make him feel better in five minutes or she'll know the reason why. There's two half-drunk cups of cocoa on the table; by the time Claire's back with a stack of clothes and a towel, he's got another in front of him and Jill's making sympathetic sounds over bruises he knows for a fact are only half as spectacular as ones she's gotten.

But they bundle him into the bathroom and descend on him with a hairdryer as soon as he's out in clothes that are a touch too big for him, and he cracks a joke about being wet behind the ears and they both make short snorting sounds. Jill smooths his hair down and Claire fluffs it out and they both giggle.

Leon feels the weight that's been on his shoulders lift.

They put him on the sofa wrapped in a blanket, in the end, and Claire sits by him at first, half on the arm but sitting on his blanket and refusing to get up so he can move for her. She smells like candy apples and cocoa, and Jill half-lies on the couch with her toes tucked under his wrappings for warmth, and Claire finally slides down to sit on the floor and lean against his legs.

He drowses off while they're still watching Buffy, and he wakes up to find Jill leaning against his shoulder with his head resting on hers and Claire tucked on the other side with her head in his lap.

He feels like the most important man in the world.


End file.
